by Talli Roland
‘Excuse me,’ Claire had said in her posh, haughty voice. ‘I’m allergic to hydrangeas. Please have it removed at once.’
Willow’s mouth dropped open. Did she look like staff? She’d bought the fitted black trousers and crisp white wraparound top just for this occasion. Catching sight of a waitress circulating around the room, Willow noticed her black and white ensemble did mirror the staff’s. Great. Before she could respond, Alex swept over and eased an arm around her waist.
‘Willow, there you are. You’ve met Claire?’
Claire’s eyes widened and she brought her perfectly manicured nails to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Willow, is it?’ Claire extended a hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you. So what is it you do?’
‘I’m a florist at Liberty’s,’ Willow said, grateful for the chance to clear up the earlier confusion.
‘So that’s why you were studying that horrific arrangement – professional interest. You know, I’ve never understood the whole attraction to flowers. Once they’re cut, they just die after a couple days. It’s like giving someone a decaying carcass. Oh look, there’s Liz. I must go have a word . . .’ Claire had drifted away in a cloud of Chanel, leaving Willow still flushed with embarrassment. The rest of the reception had passed in its usual champagne-fuelled blur, but Willow had never forgotten how she’d been mistaken for catering staff.
‘I’m here to see Alex Fielding,’ she said now to the skeletal blonde at the reception desk.
‘Oh my God, you’re that new Marilyn, aren’t you?’ the woman squealed. ‘Brilliant! Go on, give us a little tune!’
Willow barely managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. She couldn’t wait to take off this get-up. ‘Is Alex in yet?’ she asked, ignoring the request to sing.
The receptionist shot her a curious look, likely wondering what a Marilyn Monroe impersonator could want with an architect. ‘I’ll see if he’s here. One moment, please.’
Willow nodded and tried to breathe as the receptionist clacked away on the keyboard. Why was she so nervous? It was just Alex, she reminded herself as she stretched out her fingers, trying to ease the tension.
Finally, the woman looked up. ‘Did he have an appointment with you?’
Willow shook her head. ‘No. But if he’s busy, I don’t mind waiting.’
‘It’s just, according to his schedule, he’s taken this week and part of next off. Antigua, it says. Lucky bloke.’ She leaned closer to Willow, covering the microphone of her headset. ‘His associate is gone, too, for the exact same time – and at the same hotel. Wonder what they’re up to, hey?’
Willow stared, her heart plummeting. His associate? Was that Claire? She tried to block out the image of the two of them lolling about in each other’s arms on a deserted beach, complete with arching palms.
‘Would you like to make an appointment for when he returns?’ The receptionist tilted her head to the side.
‘No.’ Willow could barely force the word past the lump in her throat. She turned on her heels and walked blindly down the hallway.
‘I’ll tell him Marilyn Monroe came by, shall I? Come on, sing!’ The receptionist’s cackle echoed through the corridor, but Willow didn’t – couldn’t – respond.
Out on the street, she stood stock still and watched the rush of the office workers and the double-deckers lurch by, fighting the push of tears. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been counting on Alex for help. Swallowing hard, she headed back toward the Tube.
*
Jay jerked awake to the sound of his own snores. Yawning, he stretched out his arms only to encounter . . . an empty bed. Shame, he was feeling a little horny, and it would be good to let off some steam before the day ahead. It was a wonder there was any steam left after Luscious Lynda’s moves in Soho last night. But, as she’d said, he was quite the male specimen.
He cocked an ear to see if Willow might be up and eating already – he’d put in a standing request for two full English breakfasts plus an extra basket of croissants to fatten her up – but the outer rooms were silent. Hmm. Rolling out of bed, he didn’t even bother pulling on a robe. She’d seen it all before.
But the lounge was empty. He peered into the loo. No sign of her there, either. Where the hell could she be? She knew she wasn’t allowed out of his sight, and they had an engagement in – he stared at his watch – a fucking hour! He scanned the room frantically, as if she’d magically emerge from the walls, then marched back into the bedroom to double-check the address of the day’s first gig. If it wasn’t too far, they just might be able to make it on time. Pulling open a drawer in the bedside table, his heart dropped.
Uh-oh.
The mobile was gone. But that wasn’t the worst thing, he noticed as he rifled through the paperwork. The bloody contract was missing, too. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He’d been meaning to move everything to a more secure location, but things had got busy and his mind was on other things – like Luscious Lynda – and he’d just forgotten. Thank God he’d made all those extra copies of the paperwork, just in case.
So now Willow knew what he’d done. Had she taken off; called his bluff? He couldn’t very well recover the five-hundred thousand pound fee or sue for breach of contract if he didn’t know where she was. Chest heaving, Jay shoved the papers back in the drawer and told himself to stay calm. Willow wouldn’t go far – she didn’t have any money, after all. And even if she did manage to get out of London somehow, she wouldn’t be too hard to hunt down. The woman was practically tethered to her father. Willow could flail about all she wanted, but unless she paid out the penalty or stayed hidden forever, she was his.
And he intended to take full advantage.
*
Willow got off the Tube at Piccadilly Circus and ran up the steps, stopping by the Eros sculpture. She remembered the first time she’d come here, right after she’d moved to London. She’d stood in almost this exact spot and watched the flashing lights, her heart filled with hope and excitement at a future in the bustling metropolis. Now, two years later, she was just as desperate to break away from a life she was locked into. She gritted her teeth as anger swirled inside. If Alex couldn’t help, then she’d look up London entertainment lawyers on the internet and go to one herself!
Ignoring the stares of people on the street and the small crowd that had gathered around her, Willow wandered down Piccadilly toward the BAFTA building. Pushing inside the doors, she ran straight into Jay.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ he hissed, eyes colder than she’d ever seen them. Even though she knew the charm had all been an act, Willow took a step back in surprise. She’d seen flashes of this Jay underneath it all, but she’d just put it down to him doing a job. He’d been doing a job, all right, she thought bitterly. A job on her.
‘What do you care?’ she asked, impressed with how strong and steady her voice sounded. ‘I’m here now. That’s all that matters.’
Jay leaned closer. ‘No, that’s not all that matters. If I want to make the most out of you – and believe me, I will – then everything about you is my concern. Your weight, your hair . . .’ He smirked. ‘Even your fake boobs.’
‘You don’t own me.’ Willow held her ground even though every bit of her strained to move away.
‘I do, actually,’ Jay said, staring down at her victoriously. ‘Since you’ve got the contract, you can look it up.’
Willow bit her lip. Shit. He knew she had the contract?
‘But I’ll make it simple for you,’ he continued. ‘What you signed says you agree to follow any and all reasonable advice designed to maximise your future career. And in this industry, baby, anything is reasonable.’
Willow clamped her mouth shut. There was no point responding now. She’d see what a lawyer had to say about that!
Jay grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly up the stairs. ‘Come on. They’re waiting.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WILLOW HEAVED HER CASE into the car boot then climbed into the front seat. Every last
bit of her – even her mascara-coated eyelashes – ached with exhaustion. God, what a week.
After the performance at the BAFTA headquarters, Jay hadn’t let her out of his sight, forcing her into the nearby Wolseley for yet more food before carting her off to another engagement. And the last few days had been the same: show, eat; eat, show. Back at the hotel, Willow had waited eagerly for Jay to head out for his usual night-time rendezvous so she could creep down to the hotel’s business lounge and hop on a computer. Instead, he’d taken up residence on the suite’s sofa, forcing her to abandon the quest for freedom.
Well, Jay wouldn’t be able to keep such a tight grip in Belcherton – not with Dad and Paula around. Relief coursed through her when she thought about returning to the village. Back in her territory, she had to find a way to get the better of Jay.
‘We’re here,’ Jay said a couple hours later, and Willow opened her eyes to see the familiar pebble-dash of home. Even though it was still mid-afternoon, the high street was quieter than she’d seen it since the whole Marilyn fiasco had begun, and she breathed in the relative silence.
Jay followed her out of the car and into the house.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked. If he thought he was going to stay with her, he’d better think again.
‘I’m bunking down here, aren’t I?’ he said imperiously.
Willow shook her head. ‘No, you’re not. You can go back and sleep in the pub, or wherever you were before. You’re not staying here.’
Jay took a menacing step toward her. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘You heard the lady, lad.’ Willow’s father came in from the shop next door, and Willow’s eyebrows flew up at the sight of him. His face was pale and he looked like he’d lost weight just in the week she’d been gone. ‘If my daughter says you’re not welcome here, you’re not welcome here.’
Jay narrowed his eyes and turned to go. ‘I’ll be back later tonight with your schedule for the next week, Willow,’ he said over his shoulder as he left.
‘Dad!’ Willow threw her arms around her father, realising how much she’d missed him. He returned her embrace then pulled back, a concerned look on his face.
‘What was all that about?’ He jerked a thumb toward the door.
Willow shrugged. She didn’t want to worry him with the contract mess. ‘Oh, you know. Creative differences.’ Her dad nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. ‘So how are things with you? What’s new? Catch me up.’ She steered him toward the sofa. ‘Do you want some tea?’
‘No, no, I’m fine. Well, sort of fine.’ Her father sighed, and Willow could see he was still missing Betts. ‘One more day, and I reckon we’ll be all sold out of souvenirs. I tell you, I’m really looking forward to a little break, then getting the shop back to normal.’
Willow sat down beside him. ‘Speaking of getting back to normal . . .’ She swallowed, hoping he wouldn’t be too disappointed her brief showbiz career was coming to an end. But she had to do this for herself, no matter what.
‘I’ve decided to stop being Marilyn.’ Willow crossed her fingers, hoping for the millionth time a lawyer could help her get out of the contract – and secure her earnings. Given what she knew about Jay, she wouldn’t trust him with anything. But even if the money was gone, the shop had enough to almost pay off the debt, and they had time now to get together the rest.
A smile spread across her dad’s face. ‘Really?’
Willow nodded. ‘Yes. I just, well, I want to be me.’
‘I think that’s the best news I’ve had all day. I’ve missed my daughter.’ He scanned her outfit. ‘You look beautiful, of course. But you’re even more beautiful as yourself.’
‘Aw, thanks, Dad.’ Willow gave him another hug. Any father would have the same sentiments for a daughter, of course, but she couldn’t help feeling a warm glow inside.
‘So, when do I get Willow back?’ he asked. ‘You still look like Marilyn. And wasn’t Jay talking about a new schedule?’
Willow sighed. Wouldn’t she like to know. ‘I have a few contractual obligations to figure out, and then I’ll be me again.’ God, she couldn’t wait.
Her dad patted her knee then glanced at his watch. ‘I’d best get back to the shop. Good to have you home.’ And with that, he disappeared through the door.
*
Jay watched from outside as Willow’s father wiped down empty shelves in the ugly little shop. Stupid old man, who did he think he was, ordering Jay about like that? If Willow thought she’d be able to swan around back in Belcherton and do what she pleased, she’d better give that platinum head a shake. As soon as Jay could arrange it, he’d have her on the road for a six-month, national tour that would keep her well away from any distractions, and busy enough that she wouldn’t have an ounce of energy to lift her head at the end of the day. All he needed to do now was watch her like a hawk to make sure she didn’t do a runner.
Not that she would, he smirked. She was one of those pathetic people who couldn’t get enough of family life. Hell, the woman even voluntarily lived with her father! He’d first escaped his mum’s clutches as soon as he could scrape together rent.
And Willow was his ticket to escaping the old bag’s clutches again now. That week in London had been a good start, but after paying out for The Savoy and their other expenses (not to mention all those sessions at the Soho ‘massage parlour’), he had nowhere near the amount he’d need for a down payment on a property, let alone setting up business premises, too. He’d barely had enough for petrol to get them back to Belcherton. Dean Denner, the JFK impersonator, was ringing up with increasingly threatening messages every day, and Simpson had told him the council wouldn’t be able to pay until they got the insurance money. Jay needed more cash, fast.
Locating an old piece of cardboard that looked relatively clean, he scurried into a small lane around the side of a cottage across from Willow’s and slumped down, leaning against the rickety fence. Willow’s front door was in plain view; if she left, he’d follow her to make sure she didn’t go far. Rooting around in his jacket pocket, he drew out his mobile. In the meantime, he’d just finalise a few more tour details. Six shows a day was entirely reasonable. In fact, he’d even push for seven.
*
‘Oh my God, am I glad to see you!’ Willow pulled Paula into her arms, then leaned back, smiling at the now-purple hair. She’d rung to let Paula know she was home, and her friend had rushed over as soon as the last appointment at RockIt was out the door.
‘Me too, babes, me too.’ Paula’s earrings jangled. ‘I still can’t believe the nerve of that idiot. Now, tell me everything. After some wine, of course.’
Willow gave her friend another quick hug before heading into the kitchen to open a fresh bottle of red. It was wonderful to be home again – and back in her T-shirt and jeans. Jay might be winning the contract battle so far, but Willow wasn’t going to let him dictate her downtime any longer.
‘Here you go.’ Handing over the brimming glass, Willow settled onto the sofa beside her friend.
‘So.’ Paula sipped her wine. ‘First things first. How come you couldn’t talk to Alex? I know the man is a workaholic and all, but still.’
‘He wasn’t there. He’s off happily vacationing with his associate partner. You know. Claire.’ Willow tried to keep her voice neutral but a touch of bitterness crept in. Okay, the receptionist hadn’t exactly said it was Claire, but Willow would bet anything it was her.
‘Then what was that dinner about?’ Paula raised an eyebrow. ‘Just wanted to reminisce about old times?’
‘Probably.’ Willow shrugged, ignoring her friend’s sceptical expression. But she couldn’t figure out why else he would want to see her – he did have Claire. Willow’s gut twisted as she envisioned the two of them, holding hands in Antigua . . . ‘Anyway, enough about Alex,’ she said, pushing him out of her mind. ‘Can we focus on this contract thing for a second? I need your help looking for a lawyer.’ She lifted up her laptop and clicked open the
internet.
Paula took another gulp of her drink. ‘Sure. Listen, Wills, I’ve been thinking. How much do you know about this Jay Bellamy character – besides the fact that he’s a scumbag? I mean, he comes out of nowhere, offers you representation . . . It seems odd that a big agent would be able to drop everything like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Has he ever talked about any other clients?’
Willow shook her head. ‘No.’ Now that Paula had mentioned it, he hadn’t.
‘Well, let’s Google him and see what comes up.’
‘Okay.’ Holding her breath, Willow typed Jay’s name into the search box on Google. Jay Bellamy after Jay Bellamy filtered onto the screen, but after scrolling through the results, none had anything to do with a London agency.
‘Weird,’ Paula said. ‘If he has such big-name clients, you’d think his agency would have a website of its own, at the very least. What was the agency’s name again?’
Willow flushed. ‘Um, I don’t know.’ God, what an idiot she was.
‘Well, you have the contract, right? Maybe it says on there.’
Willow stuck a hand in her loo-roll-free bra and produced the rather sweaty pages. Paula made a face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t want Jay to get his hands on it again.’
‘Too right.’ Paula gingerly flicked through the document, her face falling as she came to the last page. ‘No, there’s just his name. Something’s really fishy about this.’ She tapped a finger against her teeth, the acrylic making a sharp noise. ‘Maybe I can get Matthias to help. He’s got some connections, and he’s always talking about the brilliant researchers on CelebrityCrush. They might be able to come up with something.’
‘That would be great!’ Willow’s heart rose with hope. ‘Is Matthias still around, then?’